Sunday, June 26, 2011

A Tomaž Šalamun Poem

Young Cops

All young cops have softmild eyes. Their upbringing is lavish.They walk between blueberries and ferns,rescuing grannies from rising waters.With the motion of a hand they ask fora snack from those plastic bags. Theysit down on tree stumps, looking at valleysand thinking of their moms. But woe is meif a young one gets mad. A Scourgeof God rings, with a club that later you canborrow to blot your bare feet.Every cops wears a cap, his head murmuring under itA sled rushes down a slope in his dreams.Whomever he kills, he brings spring to,whomever he touches has a wound inscribed.I would give my granny and mygrandpa, my mom and my pa, my wifeand my son to a cop to play with.He would tie up my grannie's white hair,but he'd probably chop up my sonon the stump of a tree. The cop himselfwould be sad that his toy was broken. That's the way they arewhen smoking pot: melancholy. They take offtheir caps and breathe their tears into them.Actually, they're like camels ridingin the desert, as if it were the wet palm of a hand.

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Born in New York, he lived in many countries until Australia finally took him in. He is currently a Foreign Expert EFL teacher in China. There were some extreme sports once; now he plays (mostly) respectable chess and pool. He listens to the Grateful Dead. He claims he can read Shakespeare in the original. Some days he thinks there is nothing easy about the Tao.